


words

by Red Dragon (Red_Dragonn)



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 13:34:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13101249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Dragonn/pseuds/Red%20Dragon
Summary: this is some actual garbage i feel like showing offANYWAYfeast your eyes on some bullshit poetry about bullshit poetry





	words

There is no poetry in me. 

I do not have whispers and light and soft-spoken things to let out and sculpt into half-seen scenes of pools and flowers and shapeless things given no name. I do not have poetry. I do not have the touch of half-said words and hinted whispers and nothingnesses. 

To be fair, that’s because I don’t like it. It lacks substance. It lacks existence. The weight of it has no pull on gravity. It flits like a butterfly, and as such one can tear it apart with ease. And I do not have it. 

I can feign it, sometimes, of course; I can make light and speak soft and convince people that I know what it is I speak of, but there is no soul to it, and so it doesn’t press down upon the world at all. It leaves no footprint. And that is not the purpose it is made with, so it is wasted. And so I might as well not.

And this is why I say there is no poetry in me. But that is not, strictly speaking, true. There is just no poetry I can convey.

The most poetic things I can see are the heavy thing which once could not be lifted, and the person now strong who has carried it a distance. It is the satisfaction. It is the breaking. It is the blood on their hands and the sharp corners of things that should be left alone. It is death. Poetry as I can see it is a whisper when there should be a shout, and a shout when there should have been a whisper and the falling apart of worlds because of it. The most poetic storm is not well-defined, but dark as night and bright as lightning and everywhere in between. 

How can I reduce these to words? 

How can I bring these to soft almost-nothings, breaths of air, _mere words_ when they are the substance of worlds? 

There cannot be poetry in me. I am world and not word. 

It would be like trying to forge an iron blade from a piece of paper. You heat it, and it burns. It has no gravity, no pull. You cannot burn yourself on a piece of paper. The most you can hope for is a papercut. It is insistent and stings like a bitch and draws much attention to itself, but another day comes and it is gone. It leaves no impression. It is not _real_ enough. 

I am tangible. I hit people, and they bruise for weeks. I speak, and I am remembered. I am world. I am real. I have gravity to me; I draw people to me like a planet to a moon. I cannot be reduced into word. I am not poetic.

I have no words in me. I have worlds. 


End file.
